


Truths and Delusions

by Mianmaru



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: A Fix-It to fix everything, Ding dong the witch is dead, First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It, M/M, POV John Watson, Post Season 4, Recovered Memories, What is real and what is missing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2018-11-19 17:01:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11317776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mianmaru/pseuds/Mianmaru
Summary: “John, how did I free you from your chains?”





	1. What The...

“Ow…” John mumbled as he forced his eyes open. The light stung painfully.

 

“John?” 

  
  
  


“John?”

 

He was still so very angry. So disappointed even upon hearing the worry in Sherlock's voice.

 

The world seemed to shift. Slowly, gradually, the hospital room around him conquered the fog in his mind.

 

“I am in hospital.” There was a sluggish feeling in his mouth. “What… What happened?”

 

He felt Sherlock move to his left, causing a chair to creak on the tiled floor. “You were shot in the head. She…”

 

“Euros.” John's hand found the bandage. He carefully pressed against the wound at his temple. It didn't hurt as much as he had expected. “How long was I out?”

 

“Two months.” Sherlock's voice was barely a whisper. “What do you mean  _ Euros _ ?”

 

“Your sister. She shot me. I remember, now.” Letting his head roll to the left, John gave him an assessing glance. “I thought she used a tranquilizer gun. Two months?”

 

Deliberately unhurried, Sherlock pressed the emergency button to call a nurse. “John, I don't have a sister.” 

 

“I… I was chained to the bottom of a well. You got me out of there. Threw me a rope.”

 

“No.” 

 

“Yes. Yes, you did. And...Oh, God!” It all came crashing down on him. Mary. He'd lost Mary and for some reason he hadn't done a thing to save her. People were able to survive a shot like that. Sherlock had survived the exact same wound and he hadn't even tried. Had just… 

 

Just taken all of his anger out on the only person he still cared for.

 

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

 

“I.. I'm sorry, Sherlock. I shouldn't have done that. It's not your fault. I don't know why you forgave me. I don't even know what I was thinking when I hit you. I just felt so useless.”

 

“John, your head…”

 

“Mr. Watson, you are finally awake!” The nurse interrupted him cheerfully. 

 

“Something's wrong. He seems delirious and disoriented.” Sherlock ushered her closer, getting up to give her space. It was so unusual, John forgot what he'd wanted to say.

 

******

 

“Physically, everything's all right.” She stated after checking his eyes, pulse and reflexes. 

“Disorientation is nothing unusual after a coma. Give it time.”

 

“No.” Sherlock replied rolling his eyes and pushing the poor woman towards the door.

 

With a frustrated sigh that said 'I have seen enough of this one.’, the nurse left the room.

 

“John. How did I free you from your chains?” Sherlock asked as he came to a stop at the foot of his bed.

 

“Well, you threw me the rope and…” It didn't make sense but he was shot in the head, so. “I don't remember everything. Only that you pulled me out and that I was bloody glad that I didn't die down there.” His vision was still swimming as he felt the memories slip from his grasp.

 

“And Euros? What did she do?” Sherlock sounded detached but his face made clear that he was at least intrigued. Why, John didn't know.

 

“She came to her senses, I guess. She is pretty unnerving but Holmes’ in general are damn unnerving.”

Unusually patient, Sherlock waited for him to go on.

 

“Still, the mind games she played were bloody advanced. Mycroft should have never allowed her to meet with Moriarty.” John paused again, organising his thoughts.

 

“Good thing she's better now. And good thing Moriarty really is dead.” His voice was gruff from not being used for a long time. “Oh! How's Molly? Is she okay?”

 

“Why wouldn't she?” Sherlock asked seemingly surprised.

 

“Oh, come on. Even you have to understand that she's not just gonna move on. You have to talk to her. What you had to do to her was nothing but torture. Poor woman doesn't deserve that.”

 

“And what did I do?” 

 

“You broke her heart, that's what. Telling her you love her even you both know it's not true… She's not just gonna shag someone and be over it. Nobody would.” 

How could Sherlock not see that? John had watched him change over the years. Especially his behavior towards Molly had improved so he had assumed that he had finally understood that her feelings were, if not welcome, at least valid.

 

“You should rest now.” Sherlock suggested in a pained voice. “There is a lot to talk about and the doctors made quite clear that it would be ‘a bit not good’ to do that right after you've woken up.”

 

“What's wrong?” John heard his heartbeat quicken on the monitor to his right. 

 

“I’ll send a real doctor. I have to go but I'll be back tomorrow.” Long fingers were closing around his ankle in a strange farewell gesture.

 

“Sherlock!” John demanded, making the Consulting Detective turn in the open door.

 

“None of this happened, John.” The grey eyes wouldn't quite meet his. “Tomorrow you might remember.” Sherlock added as he left.

 

John knew exactly what had happened. He was pretty sure he'd never be able to forget what he'd been through.

 

******

Only seconds later, two doctors had entered his room, telling him several things he'd already known and some he hadn't. Apparently, the shot hit his temple and fractured the bone. Even though his skull was ultimately too thick and curved, the angle too obtuse for the bullet to be fatal, his brain suffered trauma. 

A trauma so severe that the doctors put him in artificial coma.

  
  


After waking up the next day, John's world was a different one. Real sleep had managed to put things back in perspective. A perspective that John couldn't believe he'd lost for a whole day. Had he really thought a visit in 1895 had been real? That he was able to actually see Sherlock's drug induced fever dream? Did he, honest to God, believe that Sherlock would prefer Mary to aid in his investigation, effectively making him the babysitter of his own child? His yet to be born child.

 

“You said  _ Sherlock is actually a girl's name. _ ” The consulting detective froze mid step as soon as he entered the room.

 

“I did.” 

 

“That's the last thing I remember. Apart from weird nonsense I dreamt during the last months.”

 

Nodding, Sherlock sat down. Steepling his fingers underneath his chin, he watched John carefully.

 

“If Mary did not in fact die, where is she? Was she injured as well? Did she have the baby, already?” John pushed himself into an upright position. He had a feeling that he was in for a shock.

 

“I see, you don't believe in yesterday's delusions anymore.”

 

“Why are you stating the obvious? Tell me what happened.” John demanded with narrowed eyes.

 

“Well, we were saying our goodbyes. You bent forward. It looked as if you were about to whisper something in my ear as… as Mary shot at me.” 

 

Silence filled the room. Outside, nurses were having a chat about an old  _ hag _ making everyone feel miserable that was unfortunate enough to walk past her.

 

Sherlock still stared at him with rapt attention.

 

His face set, John forced out the only question that came to his mind.

“Why?”

 

“Are you sure, you…?”

“Sherlock!”

 

“That stick she gave you...we thought it was her complete CV but, obviously, it wasn't. After they put you in coma, I took the freedom to investigate on your…Mary.” The apologetic tone in Sherlock's voice was not completely unfamiliar but it still somehow rubbed him the wrong way.

“Good.” John complied.

 

“Yes, of course. Well, I was forced to ask Mycroft for help” Sherlock winced in dismay. 

“and shortly after, he was able to confirm my results.”

 

“Which were?” John was running out of patience. He didn't need to be treated like a  _ damsel in distress _ as Magnussen had so crudely put it.

 

Sherlock pulled a file from his belstaff. It was almost comical considering that there was no way there was an inner pocket that big but John didn't much feel like laughing.

 

“Susanna Moran. Assassin. Last employer unknown but Mycroft's men assume it to be James…”

 

“Moriarty.” John actually felt the color drain from his face. “The baby is…”

 

“There is no baby. There never was.” Sherlock interrupted him quietly. “I’m sorry, John.”

 

“Are you?” There was no reason to be angry at Sherlock. The only one he had to be angry with was himself. He had wanted to believe that he would become a father. A nice, ordinary father. Nothing in his life was ordinary, though. 

Especially not his choice of company.

 

Sherlock chose not to comment on his accusation. They both knew he didn't mean it.

 

“Go on!” John prompted.

 

“When the bullet hit you, your skull was thrust against mine and your body sacked against me. It sent us both to the ground. It was just a second but enough for Mycroft's man to shoot her. He hit her in the kidney area but, while she was bleeding from her back, there was no blood on the front. There was a hole in the front of her jacket, though.”

 

“A fake belly.” He was dumb struck. “I am the worst doctor in history.” 

 

With a slight smile, Sherlock awkwardly inquired. “How has she been able to hide that from you?”

 

“We… We weren't exactly close after the wedding.” John admitted quietly. “Are you absolutely sure she wasn't pregnant?”

 

“She's dead, John.” 

  
  


“Say what you will about Mycroft's men but they are well trained.” Sherlock added after a few more seconds of silence. 

“The pathologist is sure she's never been pregnant.”

 

John tried to accept the new pieces of information but couldn't stop himself from feeling a painful loss in spite of everything.

And, while the memories of his coma induced dream were fading, he was still struggling with the lingering feelings of guilt and anger.

  
  


“I am tired.” He let his body slide down on the mattress before turning on his side. Sherlock didn't move or make a sound, obviously not intending to leave although John had turned his back on him.

 

He felt a light touch to his shoulder but didn't find the strength to reply.

 

******

 

“They say you will be released soon. Maybe even tomorrow.” The nurse smiled as she pushed a tray of food at him on a mobile table, waking him up in an overtly friendly fashion. “Mr. Holmes made clear that you wouldn't be staying here any longer than necessary.”

 

“Where is he?” John asked, suddenly wide awake. Sherlock hadn't visited him in 3 days. Maybe he was trying to give him time to comprehend. Maybe he had better things to do. Or maybe, he lost interest in a friend that married an assassin that tried to kill him. Twice.

 

“Annoying someone else, I suppose. He said he'd be back in a few minutes.” Apparently, Sherlock had been his own friendly self, interacting with the hospital staff.

 

“Thank you.” There weren't many things as disgusting as carrot soup. And it was always carrot soup they gave him in hospital. John politely waited for the nurse to leave the room before he pushed the table top as far away as possible. 

 

He was hungry but there was no way he could eat the soup without at least gagging from the smell.

 

As slow as possible, he sat up. Pushing his legs over the edge of the bed prove to be difficult but it didn't stop him from setting first one, then the other foot down on the floor.

 

Carefully, John got up from the bed. With small, weak steps, he made it the two meters to the closest window. The fresh air was a relief he hadn't expected as it pulled his lunch’s reeking steam outside.

 

Noticing the numbness taking over his left leg, John tightened his grip on the window handle. “Shit.” He muttered as he strained his arm against the growing pull of gravitation.

 

His right leg wasn't strong enough to support his weight after two months of forced rest. Putting his other hand on the window sill, John decided to let his body glide to the floor as safe as possible but when he took his other hand off the handle, he lost balance, landing hard on his back. He only just managed to use his remaining strength to keep his head from banging against the floor.

 

“Wait.” Upside down, Sherlock's face appeared above him. Without further ado, he pushed his hands under John's armpits and pulled him up.

 

Hoisting him back onto the bed, sweat was forming on the taller man's forehead. John wasn't able to help him at all but the feeling of weakness was pushed aside for the moment as worry took over.

 

“I can't feel my left leg.” He said, not trying to conceal his fear. 

 

Sherlock pushed him onto his back before lifting both his legs onto the mattress.

He didn't talk but his focused expression spoke volumes.

Resting one hand on his left ankle, Sherlock gave him an assessing glance.

“Tell me when you feel something.” He let his hand glide up with steady movements. John's pyjama pants rode up but he didn't feel anything between his foot and knee. Agitated, he shook his head.

Sherlock’s hand wandered further. “And here?”

A few centimetres above his knee cap, a tingling sensation began to spread. John's expression shifted enough to answer the question. The pale hand began to press a bit harder into John's thigh. “Yes, now!” 

 

“Good!” Even Sherlock sounded relieved but he seemed to be willing to make completely sure the numbness was limited to the foreleg. Staring into John's eyes, he pushed his hand higher, resting his fingers where hip met thigh.

 

“I definitely feel that.” John said blushing a bit. He was suddenly glad that they had taken him off the heart monitor in the morning.

 

“Good.” Sherlock repeated quietly. “We should let them check your leg. I brought you a sandwich but I dropped it by the door when I saw you lying there. It's in a bag, though. I know you hate carrot soup.” John tried to nod along but had a hard time listening while Sherlock's hand lingered on his leg.

 

“I do.” He replied uselessly. “Thank you.”

 

With a short press to his thigh, Sherlock finally pulled his hand away and got up to retrieve the paper bag by the door.

“Cheese and bacon.” He said, handing it over. “I'll get the doctors while you eat.”

 

John could only nod as he watched the door close behind a whirlwind of belstaff.

 

“Sandwich.” He whispered as he pushed the analysis of the last 4 minutes to the back of his mind.

 

*****

He was halfway through his lunch when the doctors, this time three, came to check on him. While he kept on chewing, one of them pulled out a set of tools containing needles and something that looked remarkably like a fork.

 

From the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock lingering in the open door.

“Careful there.” John warned when one of the needles was held to his toe.

 

“Doctor Watson, tell me when you feel something.” The blond man told him while the other two stood around, apparently exchanging glances after seeing Sherlock.

 

“Barely anything.” There was a tiny prickle in most toes but nothing at his heel. The higher the needle pricked him, the stronger the sensation got.

 

“Ow! Ok. Yeah, I think that's enough.”  John stopped the man. 

 

“Seems to be a circulation problem. I don't think we have to worry about it after you've been stuck to a bed for such a long time. Regular massages should solve the problem. And the physiotherapy that's been arranged. I heard Mr. Holmes has already found a better physiotherapist so I am sure he will be able to organise a massage therapist, once you are back home.” To John, it looked as if the doctor and his inactive colleagues were glad they had found nothing that warranted a prolonged stay in hospital. As they hurried out, Sherlock stepped in again.

 

“Do I have a home that the therapists can visit me at?” John asked as he realised that he couldn't imagine going back to the place he had shared with the woman who'd shot him. And his best friend.

 

“Well, there is the house Mar… Moran owned. But Mrs. Hudson said she doesn't want you there alone. And I wouldn't be opposed to you moving back in.” Sherlock drawled as if it was nothing special to take John back in.

 

“Good. Yeah, good. Um...I need to pick up my stuff when they discharge me, tomorrow.” 

 

“Already taken care of.”

 

“Ok. That's settled then.” John had to stop himself from fidgeting with the blanket under his hands.

“Back to Baker Street.”  _ Back home. _

 

_ ****** _

 

He had never left a hospital in such a fashion. As soon as he had finished his breakfast, two nurses and one doctor ushered him out. 

Sherlock was waiting for him outside and John had the lingering feeling that the list of places the Consulting Detective was banned from had gotten slightly longer.

 

Sherlock helped him into the car, carefully watching him for any signs of dismay. The feeling in John's left leg had returned but he was still a bit too wobbly for his liking.

 

As the taxi drove through the crowded streets of London, they didn't speak much.

Sherlock only told him that his room was ready and his belongings had been brought over. 

 

It didn't prepare John for the sight that was greeting him as he stepped over the threshold.  _ That might have taken Sherlock and his perfectionism 3 days. _

It looked as if even the dust was back in place. Skimming through his drawers confirmed that Sherlock had indexed not only his socks but his pants as well. 

_ Awkward _ was the only word John's mind came up with. 

  
  


He felt constantly exhausted. It was annoying him to no end. So was Sherlock's strangely affectionate hovering. 

Sitting on the edge of his bed, John wondered about the strange turn of events his life had taken. As tears started filling his eyes, he didn't dare guess if they were from sadness, frustration or relief. 

 

But in the quiet of his room, he allowed himself to admit regret.

******


	2. Not Quite

In the week since waking up from the artificial coma, John had felt the memories from his dream dissolve and deform in the back of his mind.

He had spent long minutes in his room, dwelling on his mistakes, when he decided to accept his new (old) place in life and went downstairs.

As he entered the parlour, John almost ran into a cup of tea. Surprised, Sherlock balanced the hot liquid without spilling more than a drop or two.

 

“I was just about to bring you..”

 

“Do you know something, I don't?” John asked, taken aback by the unusually thoughtful gesture.

“Am I terminally ill?”

 

“I don't know what you mean.” Sherlock said defensively before he sipped the tea and walked over to the couch.

 

“Am I still in coma?” John teased a bit more, watching the other drink his tea.

 

“Here, your laptop.” The Consulting Detective ignored the attempt at humour, handing John what he'd come down for.

 

Letting admiration show on his face but not commenting on the correct deduction, the blogger returned to his work.

******

It had been a long time since John's last blog entry and his typing had certainly not improved since then. He felt as if every sentence had to be rewritten four times until he got it right and his mind was fumbling with broken pieces of experiences he had never even made.

 

Writing had never been as difficult as it was that evening. And never as exhausting.

Sherlock was lying on the couch, apparently deep in thought, after watching him for almost an hour while he had clumsily collected bullet points for his plot.

  


The sun just set as John decided to leave it be and closed the laptop.

Sherlock looked at him from the corner of his eyes.

 

“I am not hungry but we could order in if you want something.” He proposed calmly.

 

John shook his head. “I need to lie down.” As he pushed himself up from his chair, Sherlock pointed at a box of biscuits on the kitchen table. “Mrs. Hudson bought them for you.”

Even nodding was difficult as he picked up the box and walked out.

 

His back and head hurt as John dragged himself up the stairs. In hospital, they had told him that he would feel very tired for a while but he hadn't expected it to be as extreme as it was.

 

But the pain and mental turmoil weren't the worst thing. Nor was the exhaustion.

 

The worst thing was the intense feeling of contentment and the guilt that came with it.

*****

 

“Oh, John! You are finally out of that horrible place.” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed in her singsong voice as John entered the kitchen.

 

Sherlock was already nibbling on a piece of toast and watching the cheerful landlady prepare an indulgent breakfast with a fond smile on his face.

 

“Yes, finally.” John agreed before giving her a soft kiss on the cheek.

 

“That hospital staff became more rude with every passing day.” She said with a glance in Sherlock's direction. “They treated you good, I hope.” John tried to answer that they had in fact been very polite as she went on. “Well, with Sherlock there everyday, I suppose it wasn't exactly easy for them.” She added a proud wink at Sherlock to the statement.

 

“Probably not.” John conceded with a grin.

 

“I am not sure my stomach will be able to handle berries, already. But everything else looks amazing. Thank you.” He said as he sat down at the overflowing table.

 

“I am so happy you are better.” John gave her his best genuine smile and spread the butter on his toast.

 

“Me too.” Sherlock commented a second later.

After seconds of astounded silence and exchanged glances between him and Mrs. Hudson, John mumbled “I know.” before he busied himself with a mouthful of berries.

 

He was pretty sure something was going on that he didn't know about.

 

*****

The breakfast had been pleasant. In the time before St. Barth's, they used to spend lazy Sundays around the kitchen table, with Mrs. Hudson filling even the shortest silence with friendly teasing and little stories about the neighbours. Sherlock had always tried to look disinterested while participating in the Sunday breakfast whenever possible.

 

John felt oddly thrown back as he cleaned the table. The same old routine in the same flat with the same people. People who were more of a family to him than any blood relative had ever been.

 

Still, he felt as if he misbehaved every time he had to laugh or smile. He shouldn't be feeling good about the situation. He was supposed to grief, wasn't he?

 

“The physiotherapist will be here at 2. I scheduled the massage for five pm. Is that ok?” Sherlock interrupted his thoughts.

 

“I think so.” John said, too distracted by his guilt to notice Mrs. Hudson's worried expression.

 

“Alright, boys. I have a lot of things to do so I'll leave you to it.” She let her hand rest on his shoulder for a second before she took the tray and left.

 

Sherlock watched him from his chair, as John finished putting the dishes in the sink.

 

“Got any plans today?” The blond asked casually.

 

“No.”

 

“Ok.” John said, nodding to himself before he decided to occupy his whirling mind.

 

As soon as he sat down at the laptop, he heard Sherlock's door close.

 

*****

 

It was not very difficult to analyse his dream. Even though it got less and less palpable while John was typing down the unrealistic actions and events, he was still able to relive the emotions.

 

His dismay every time Mary put him down with words, the anger he felt boiling under the surface. The threat posed by a psychologist and the way he rejected Sherlock. They all had a source in real life but were so enhanced that they became completely ridiculed and over the top.

 

Mostly, he marvelled at the way he had redeemed Mary. Making her a saint instead of a cold-blooded murderer was such an obvious display of self-loathing, it gave him the best therapy lesson of his life. And that without a paid helper.

 

The moment Sherlock had returned into his life, John had immediately lost interest in pursuing a relationship with Mary. But he had been angry. So _bloody_ angry that he used her and his newly found domesticity to punish Sherlock for abandoning him.

Only to regret his decision on the day of his wedding.

 

He hadn't wanted a baby. Hadn't wanted a pregnant wife that shot his best friend without batting an eye. And he had been right. Right to leave her and go back to Baker Street. And what had he done? He had taken her back even after going through that damned USB stick only to have her shoot at Sherlock yet again.

 

And not trying to stop Sherlock from leaving him again. At least as far as he knew. He suspected that he had probably been trying to convince the consulting detective to stay but he couldn't remember what he'd planned to whisper. He didn't have the slightest idea, especially because he could distinctly remember being at an absolute loss when they were shaking hands.

 

He was fumbling through his memories but came up blank when Sherlock appeared in his line of sight.

 

“You haven't been typing for eight minutes.”

 

“Yes, I was… trying to remember what I planned to tell you on the tarmac.” He answered, suddenly back in reality.

 

“And?”

 

“No idea, really.” Sherlock seemed to be just as disappointed but said nothing as he started to move the settee and table.

 

“Your physiotherapist will be here in 5 minutes. You’re going to need some space for the exercises.”

 

“Right.”  Together, they pushed their furniture out of the way, clearing a two square meter circle when they the doorbell rang.

 

As they heard Mrs. Hudson open the door, Sherlock excused himself. “Call me when you are done.”

  


John was only 20 minutes into his therapy with Louise and already glad that Sherlock had left him to his devices. That woman was torturing him. Bending his legs further then they should be bend, stretching his joints and pricking him with needles to force his body (and probably mind) into submission.

 

With nine more sessions ahead, John mentally thanked the doctors that they hadn't left him in coma any longer. Nine more sessions he could do. He hoped.

 

45 minutes of pain and sweat later John watched Louise leave, treatments table folded under her massive arm. Not even trying to get up from the couch, John called Sherlock's name.

 

“When will the massage therapist arrive?” He added hopefully.

 

“I thought you might want to rest for a while, so I planned it for five.” He stated with an assessing glance. “Do you prefer it earlier?”

 

“If that's possible. Maybe we could call and ask.” John suggested.

 

“Call who?”

 

“The therapist.”

Sherlock looked sheepishly at him.

 

“For the massage?” John added with narrowed eyes.

 

“I think I forgot to tell you that I didn't hire a therapist. There was no one qualified enough.” Sherlock said offhandedly.

 

“No one qualified enough? In all of Greater London?” He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. His muscles ached and his back was not far from cramping all over.

 

“Yes. No one more qualified than me.”

 

“To give me a full body massage?” John asked in disbelief. He leant forward, looking from right to left while trying to find out where this was coming from.

 

“Sherlock? Have you ever even given someone a massage?”

 

“No. But I read several articles on the topic and I know how your muscles are stressed when you move and that, right now, your legs, back and shoulders are tense and close to cramping.”

 

“I am not sure this is a good…”

“Idea? I assure you, I know what I'm doing.” Sherlock tilted his head to the side, undoubtedly trying to deduce a reason to hesitate. “Or is there another logical reason to pay someone less qualified.”

Sherlock knew how to persuade him. John wouldn't be able to work for another month and they both knew how much he hated wasting money and accepting help from strangers.

  


There was no _logical_ reason to refuse. And how scary was that? Not only that John really _really_ wanted a massage but the fact that he suddenly felt exhilarated at the prospect of Sherlock doing it…

 

“Can I shower, first?” He asked in overacted defeat.

 

With a gesture of his hand, Sherlock waved him off. “Sure.”

 

*****

 

Anxiously, John cleaned himself in the most efficient way. The whole time, his mind revolved around the U-turn his life had taken while he was fast asleep. From lonely, frustrated husband/soon-to-be father, to still-too-fond-of-the-flatmate widower.

He knew that he deserved a bit of excitement and the few scraps of affection he got from Sherlock but…

Maybe that made him a bad person.

Or maybe, just maybe, he was right to feel as if being granted a full discharge from a potential death sentence.

 

His moral compass was off the rails. He knew that. But he'd also known that one does not abandon his marriage. Had been so sure of it that he'd made himself overlook Mary's attempted murder and constant arrogance in favor of an unborn child that never existed.

 

John was getting angry again. At himself. At Sherlock for not stopping him and, first and foremost, at Mary. He took a calming breath as he toweled his hair dry before being painfully interrupted by a cramp in his bizeps.

 

“Shit.” He let the towel drop to relieve the pain in his arm.

Carefully, he pulled his pants up and took the dressing gown from it's hook.

 

“Time for a massage.” He muttered under his breath as he looked at himself in the mirror..

 

“Here!” Sherlock called from his bedroom.

 

_Oookaaaaay._

  
  
  


He opened the glass door to Sherlock's room without hesitating. The consulting detective had already prepared blankets and massage oil. John took it all in but came up blank.

 

“What's that for then?” He asked, hovering in the doorway. Sherlock, seemingly fed up with waiting for him, almost jumped up from his chair.

 

“I am going to use an oil that warms the muscles while they are being massaged. In order to maximise the blood circulation, it is best to keep the warmth in for as long as possible, so I will cover the relevant areas with blankets.” Sherlock replied pragmatically.

 

“Sounds good.” He said with a shrug. “So, do you want me to just lie down in the middle?”

 

“On your back, please.” Sherlock confirmed.

  


“Um... OK.” As he awkwardly settled between blankets and massage oil, John began to worry again.

Sherlock was definitely behaving strange. Too interested. Too affectionate. Too... friendly.

He knelt down beside him, spreading the oil in his hands while giving John's body a visual once-over.

 

“Did something happen while I was in coma? I mean something other than you visiting me in hospital and driving the staff up the walls?” John inquired suspecting.

The first touch of Sherlock's hands on his forearms made goosebumps bloom all over his chest.

 

“Lestrade called and offered us a case. I think he just wanted to know how you were doing. Mycroft texted to annoy me.” He dug his fingers into the tight muscle between John's neck and shoulder. “Not much, really. I was either here or in hospital. There is only so much that can happen between two locations. Oh, an old man tried to steal my wallet!”

 

That was not what John was getting at but the thumbs rotating underneath his collarbones were beginning to distract him.

 

Adding more oil, Sherlock dragged his hands up and down the tense arms before he let them wander over John's torso with soft pressing motions. Watching him in fascination, the blond felt the tension die away. His back still hurt but he was absolutely certain Sherlock would take care of that, too. His sides were ticklish but with little extra pressure even that felt relaxing.

 

The consulting detective sat back on his heels and gave him a warning. “Now the legs.”Draping a blanket over John's upper body, he shuffled backwards, starting at the right ankle.

 

He worked his way up to one knee, than changed to the other ankle to repeat the treatment.

 

If John thought, the upper body had been relaxing, the thigh prove to be the opposite. Sherlock’s formerly systematic movements became careful, insecure even. And it didn't help that John had to concentrate on his earlier anger to suppress unwanted physical reactions. He'd always been sensitive at his inner thighs but this he hadn't expected. And looking down his body didn't help, either.

 

Every time his hands moved an inch higher, Sherlock looked up at him as if asking for permission. John was breathing in a shallow regular rhythm, trying his best to remain calm but soon felt his body give way to the sensations. A calculating expression appeared on Sherlock's face as he closed his hands hard around John's legs, using the same technique he'd used on the sides of his upper body. It hurt minimally but his muscles felt a bit better afterwards. It did nothing to diminish John's physical inhibition, though. Quite the contrary.

 

“Should I turn around, now?” He asked with false casualty.

 

“Yes. OK.” Sherlock agreed with what appeared to be a mixture of relief and disappointment.

  


That was better. Lying on his stomach, John didn't have to worry about embarrassing himself and managed to enjoy the warmth spreading through his back and shoulders. The nimble fingers manipulating his muscles were as skilled as Sherlock had promised. Above all, his lower back had needed attention. Of course, the massage wasn't actually meant to relax but nonetheless it did.

 

When Sherlock started at the back of his calves, John felt himself gradually drift off. The touches to his skin became a pleasant afterthought as his mind began to wander.

 

Sure motions circled up and down his legs for long moments before he felt a blanket covering him completely and long fingers brushing through his hair.

  
_Must have been on the tarmac._


	3. Nothing wrong, whatsoever.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You convinced me that acting happy and normal was the same thing as being happy and normal. That it doesn't matter who I am.”

 

Bright sunlight fell through the window as John woke up to soft violin sounds coming from the parlour. Disoriented at first, he realised that he was still lying in Sherlock's bed with a soft blanket covering his overheated body. Looking around, he saw his dressing gown neatly folded on the chair across from him.

 

He got out of the bed and covered his almost naked form, trying not to feel awkward.

 

Sherlock turned around from the window as he sensed him but didn't stop playing until he saw the tension on John's face.

“Haven't you slept well?” He asked with a worried expression.

“Listen Sherlock. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have fallen asleep in your bed.”

“Oh. That.” Sherlock replied, oozing boredom.

“I didn't mind. Although it would have been better if you hadn't chosen to lie in the middle.”

“What? Would I have woken up next to you, if I hadn't?” He asked, his voice higher than he had intended.

“Just remember it next time.” Sherlock added with a shrug as he resumed playing.

“Don't worry, it's not going to happen again.” John vaguely promised as he fled the room to get dressed.

 

******

 

“I wanted you for myself, this time.” Mrs. Hudson smiled when John saw scones and jam on her kitchen table. Not a even a minute earlier she had called him down, using his full name which meant that it would be wise if he was fast.

In contrast to the annoyed muttering he had expected, John entered the kitchen only to find another set breakfast table.

“You are the best.” Pressing a kiss to her cheek as he passed, John immediately sat down.

“Oh, you know how I love baking. Especially for you two.” She hesitated before she went on. “And I wanted to talk to you. See how you're doing.” 

John tried to ignore his first impulse, which was to give her an angry look. Instead he chose the polite way.

“Yeah. I'm fine. Good, really.” He nodded and bit into a buttered scone.

“John…” She put her hand on his and gave him an emphatic look. “That Mary business. It's horrible. I know how you must be feeling. My husband wasn't…” 

As if being burned, he pulled his hand away. “I don't want to talk about.” What would he tell her, anyway?

“But…”

“No, Mrs. Hudson. I know you only want to help but there is nothing to talk about. Nothing. I am fine. Nothing wrong, whatsoever. Ok?” He stared into her eyes, his expression somewhere between pleading and forceful.

“Ok, John.” She said, giving his shoulder a little clap as she got up.

“Tea?”

 

“Thank you.” He meant it.

 

******

 

“The physiotherapist is going to come tomorrow instead of today. Makes more sense anyway if we give your muscles time to relax.” Sherlock stated, sitting on the couch in shoes and a black suit.

 

John narrowed his eyes at that. He’d just returned from a walk to train his weakened legs and was not in the mood for polite lies. “Does it? And what are we doing instead?”

“You never asked. You probably assumed that it would be futile. Well, there is a grave to visit and after Mrs. Hudson and I had a rare moment of agreement, I thought it best to take you there.”

Sherlock was right, of course. John had just assumed that her body had been disposed of.

“Mary?”

“Moran.” Sherlock corrected. “Would that be something you want?” He asked, already at the door and slipping into his coat. 

John wasn't sure. Tombstones had rarely held a meaning for him. Only once actually. But he nodded. 

Because decent human beings would be interested in the grave of their wife.

 

Apparently, Mycroft had sent them a car for the occasion so John was pretty confident that the older Holmes had also been the one arranging the funeral.

“Was there an official ceremony?” John wondered aloud when they stopped in front of the cemetery.

“Not really. We didn't know her religion and there was no obituary, of course.” Sherlock stated cautiously. “And you were in coma. I didn't care much for her remains “ He winced,for once realising his lack of empathy. “ so I let Mycroft decide what to do.”

 

“Right.” John said with raised eyebrows as they reached the nondescript meadow and lush grass was filling most of his view. 

“I told my brother to mark the spot even though it's not really the purpose of _this_.” Eyes scanning the ground, the consulting detective began to search for the mark while John watched him, not knowing what he was supposed to do if Sherlock found it.

 

“John?” The grave was in the far right corner of the meadow 'marked’ with what seemed to be a pebble.

“Labradorite. Not native to London.” Sherlock said, moving the stone in his hand to show John how the light got caught in it, making the surface shine blue and yellow before letting it drop to the ground again. “I'll leave you to yourself.” Quickly, the belstaff vanished out of John's sight.

  


Minutes went by. The birds around him were busy collecting dry leaves and small twigs. A single ant was passing right in front of John's feet, shielded by the grass as it moved in a gentle breeze.

 

“You shot me.” It was a statement not an accusation.

“I don't know what else to say or why Sherlock brought me here.” John added quietly as he began to turn around only to stop midway and look back at the small stone.

“I am glad.” He admitted. “I am glad that you weren't there when I woke up and I am glad that there never was a baby you could have burdened me with.” Guilt was nagging at him but he felt he had to go on.”I don't know what I thought. You were _the worst decision of my life.”_ He hissed, staring furiously at the ground.

“I knew that you were lying. I knew it. But apparently that doesn't stop me from…” John hesitated. “You convinced me that acting happy and normal was the same thing as being happy and normal. That it doesn't matter who I am but what I do.” He felt the moisture gather in his eyes as he clenched his fists painfully.

“I am an angry man, Mary. I thought I had accepted that a long time ago but… Yes. This time it is my fault. But all the things you made me feel bad about… Running away from you for the cases, for Sherlock. The things I didn't tell you. You knew I didn't love you and you never… you never loved me, either. No. You...YOU HATED ME.” His voice sounded menacing, even to his own ears. “I see it now. And now, I also see what you were trying to achieve. You _fucking psychopath.”_ John tried not to lose it. Not to yell at a square meter of grass in the middle of a cemetery.

“I don't know what happened before you shot me but… I know I would never have chosen you out of the two of you.” A bitter smile appeared on his face. “Why would anybody choose a woman like you? You always tried to make me feel useless and small. Unloveable. You… You were the problem. For once, it wasn't me.”

John looked around for several seconds in a vain attempt of calming himself. “This is who I am. An angry, frustrated ex-soldier. I am not Sherlock's sidekick. I am… “ He didn't know how to go on. “I am glad I survived you. And I am glad you are dead. That's all.”

He imagined himself spitting on the meaningless earth in front of him but decided against it. “You picked me up when I was broken. Thinking my best friend was dead. Thinking… That's how normal people lived. But you weren't normal. And I am not either. Obviously. Because I actually tried to forgive you for shooting MY BEST FRIEND!” Tears were running down his face and he took a calming breath as he saw Sherlock lingering only meters away. “This! Yes, this is _my_ fault. I betrayed him. For you, out of all people. Even though… Even though we both knew what he means to me. You knew and you tried to take him from me again.” He swallowed hard.

“If you weren't dead already…” John threatened uselessly.

Sherlock had slowly begun to come over, mindful of intruding on him but knowing that John preferred not to be too emotional in front of strangers. And there were several grieving visitors scattered all over the cemetery.

Hurried, John tried to rub the tears off his face. “You shouldn't have brought me here.” He whispered when he felt Sherlock's presence at his side. “Will you tell me what really happened on the tarmac?”

 

After several seconds, he felt long fingers brush against his hand. “I'd rather show you.”

Looking up, John wanted to ask what that was supposed to mean when Sherlock turned him around and bend down to whisper in his ear.

Instead of words, there was only a soft frustrated exhale as Sherlock pulled back again.

  
And, without preamble, soft lips pressed against John's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. Ok. Another chapter is needed. Oops.


	4. All Is Well That Ends Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything falls into place.

He was unable to breath, or move, or even react as everything fell into place. Suddenly, he realised why he had been shot. Why Sherlock had behaved so strangely out of character.

 

He had finally done it. Found his bravery and overcome his fear.

 

Before he finished his train of thought, Sherlock pulled back.

 

“I don't know what you were thinking doing that but…”

 

John's hand came up, unbidden. Sinking into the dark curls and tilting Sherlock's head downwards, just enough to let him feel the soft lips again.

 

The other found it's way around the lean back while John was filled with relief and elation. And pride. So much pride at finally having found the strength to be true to himself and the world.

 

He felt Sherlock relax under his hands. Eagerly participating in the kiss that was so very overdue. A warm feeling was spreading through his chest when John felt the first touch of nimble fingers against his neck. The simple movement of lips, brushing and winding against one another, innocent and unhurried, made his heart clench. _Finally_.

 

Sherlock’s hands were running over his back, pressing them even closer together. As John felt his elation slowly turn into passion, he took a step back only to have Sherlock follow him.

 

Pressing his hands into the smooth fabric covering Sherlock's chest, he broke their contact.

 

“Cemetery.”

 

The only reaction that drew from the grinning man in front of him was a shrug. John had to hold up his hand in a _stop-right-there_ gesture to make Sherlock keep a polite distance.

 

“Home.” He ordered as he held out his hand for the other to take.

 

“Boring!” Sherlock exclaimed in mock annoyance before grabbing his hand anyway and dragging him to the exit.

  


Keeping himself in check during the drive back turned out to be very, very difficult. Especially with Sherlock entwining their fingers immediately after sitting in the back of the car, hidden from the driver's sight behind a black glass barrier.

 

It was almost overwhelming. After such a long time of suppressed emotions and forced denial, John had a hard time allowing his feelings to run wild. That didn't stop him from glancing every minute at the man he'd longed for for almost unbearable long years. Or from smiling so much. He assumed that he looked like a maniac. Still, his heart didn't calm down. Didn't get used to the physical contact and lingering feeling of Sherlock's lips on John's.

  


He broke the moment the car pulled up in front of 221B. Sherlock was just about to open the door and hurry out when John gripped his hand harder and made him stop mid-motion. With a smile, he bend over and pressed their lips together, just to see if they still fit.

 

Sherlock gave him a brilliant smile when they parted again.

 

“You should have shown me earlier.”

 

“I didn't know how. And I wasn't sure you hadn't changed your mind.” Sherlock admitted into the air between them. With their foreheads leaning against each other and their knees touching, John still didn't feel close enough.

 

“I am glad how things turned out.” He whispered confidentially. “I am so fucking glad that it's just us, again.”

 

“The two of us against the rest of the world. As it should be.” Sherlock agreed, giving him a brief kiss before leaning back and opening his door. “Let's go home.”

  


In contrast to the world in general, the time between being shot and waking up from his coma didn't exist for John. It all felt as if he had suddenly opened his eyes in a different dimension where everything looked the same but wasn't.

 

Some changes were easier to accept than others and all of them (apart from the slight weakening of his muscles and the circulation problems) were bloody glorious.

Still, John needed time to catch up with the world. Two months ago, John would have jumped at the chance to take Sherlock to bed but, as it was, he preferred a quiet evening in. Exchanging kisses and soft touches instead of following his need to merge with the lithe body of the one and only consulting detective on the planet.

  


Fortunately, Sherlock didn't need to be told. As they were walking up the stairs, he was carefully reading John's posture and facial expression, his gaze flickering over the tense body.

 

“I could do with a curry.” He stated, giving John's hand a reassuring squeeze before picking up the phone. Of course, his assessment had been as obvious as usual, but John had always appreciated not having to explain emotions he didn't fully understand himself.

 

“Duck in lemon sauce for me, please.” He sighed as he dropped onto the couch. “Thank you.” He added with a smile.

  


The 24 minutes between ordering and delivery were probably the best in John's life since he’d been 16. Similar to his first kiss, the quiet explorations of skin and the murmured encouragements in his ear, filled his entire being with a mixture of giddiness and calmth.

Sherlock's lips were brushing over his collarbone, his scent apparently a thing to be cherished and repeatedly inhaled.

John's hands restlessly roamed the lean body, trying to prove again and again that this was,in fact, happening. Somewhen between Sherlock casually sitting down beside him and John being pushed into a horizontal position, their shirts had been unbuttoned to allow a pleasurable caress every now and then.

 

John’s mind tried to come up with more than ‘ _I am snogging Sherlock.’_ but drew a blank apart from _‘Finally!’._

 

Just when he decided that he was apparently more inclined to take Sherlock to bed than he’d earlier thought, the doorbell rudely interrupted them.

 

“Oh, bloody…” Sherlock muttered as he pushed off of him and stopped Mrs. Hudson halfway up the stairs.

 

“Thank you!”

“Sherlock! Stop that!” John heard what sounded like a physical struggle going on in the hallway and sat up.

“You want to come up. See if John is doing O.K.. I assure you he is. We both are definitely O.K.. Now, go on watching that baking show.”

 

Several seconds of silence had John imagining a stare off between the two until he heard Mrs. Hudson's barely suppressed shriek “Oh… Oh… I'm so happy for you two.” followed by a smooching sound that made John laugh as he imagined Sherlock's faked annoyance.

 

When the consulting detective came back into the parlor, his shirt open down to his belly button and a big smudge of lipstick on his cheek, John knew it.

It wasn't the first time this realisation hit him but he'd never before felt it as strong.

 

This was his family. More of a family than anybody else could ever be.

 

“I love you.” He said dumbstruck.

 

Sherlock froze midway between door and couch table, staring at John as if seeing him for the first time.

  


“Say something, Sherlock.” John demanded, uncertain.

 

The lanky man took one controlled step forward, letting the bag with their food drop unceremoniously on the table. Another second or two passed before John had to fight his defense instincts when Sherlock almost jumped him in one sudden explosion of movement.

 

It was all the answer he needed, though. Not being of the talkative kind either when it came to emotions, he had no problem to understand. Sherlock’s lips pressed hard against every bit of skin they found, wandering from John's mouth to his ear, neck and chest.

 

He'd already forgotten about eating in general when the surprisingly affectionate man above him stopped his assault to look into his eyes.

 

“That I rescheduled your physiotherapy doesn't mean we should skip the massage, as well.” John's brain needed a moment to catch up before he nodded enthusiastically.

 

“You're absolutely right.” He had a hard time getting a grip on his arousal as he let himself be pulled up from the couch.

“Now. Right. Ok.” He mumbled, trying to mentally prepare.

  


Undressing was awkward with Sherlock looking at him like a lion waiting to attack the gnu. The well-dressed consulting detective didn't move at all while John tried to adjust to the rather unfamiliar foreplay. He wasn't shocked, though. It was Sherlock after all and expecting their first intimate encounter to be like one of those he'd had before was just ridiculous.

 

Keeping his pants on, they'd said _massage_ after all, John lay back on his front in the middle of the bed. The rustle of clothing told him that he hadn't severely miscalculated the outcome of this endeavour.

 

John watched as Sherlock folded his expensive shirt and neatly placed it on the nearby chair but closed his eyes when the pale man began to open his trousers. No need to stir his nervousness any more but he suddenly realised the position he was in.

 

A few seconds later, he felt the mattress dip before two boney knees cradled his thighs and warm oil dripped onto his spine.

 

Carefully and almost without any pressure, Sherlock spread the liquid over his shoulder blades and lower back.

 

“Stop thinking. Your back is all tense.” The nimble fingers started to manipulate a painful spot right below his pulse point, making John hiss through gritted teeth.

Soon, Sherlock was satisfied with his work there and moved on, sliding his fingers up over shoulders and upper arms. The movements made it seem as if he had lost track of his initial plan but before John could comment on it, he felt Sherlock sit back, resting on his thighs and immediately changing the tone of his ministrations.

 

The touch of his hands turned into caressing motions wandering down his back. Featherlight brushes over John's sensitive sides.

His senses were alight with the knowledge of semi-erect flesh slightly pressing against his backside.

Experimentally, he lifted his hips to press closer.

Immediately, Sherlock faltered in his movements and failed to suppress a sharply indrawn breath.

“John?” He sighed as he pressed against the inviting arse.

Instead of answering, John just braced himself against the mattress, turning his head far enough to the side to watch the taller man move against him in careful trusts.

It was strangely arousing to offer himself like that but it didn't feel odd. Hadn't he always offered himself up for Sherlock to take?

He felt the rhythmic press of weight. The long fingers digging into his shoulder blades.

“Oh.”Sherlock sighed above him.

John felt his own cock harden in shared sentiment.

He should probably have felt used or humiliated or… emasculated. But the only thing he felt was the need to see Sherlock shake through his orgasm. Feel him come against his body and into his own pants.

“Yes.” He encouraged with a hushed voice, keeping his body rigid against Sherlock's demanding thrusts. The laboured breath above him was all the answer he got as he felt the pace of push and pull increase.

He wanted Sherlock to take what he offered so willingly. His body and his damaged soul.

But he wanted to see. To commit every miniscule expression on Sherlock's face to memory. John felt the fingers on his back clench and unclench. He knew the signs.

“Sherlock. Let me turn around.” He said, giving his best to sound soothing and reassuring.

“I…”

“Please!” He interrupted, feeling his need to just _see_ turn unbearable.

 

The weight that had pressed against his lower back and arse was lifted hesitantly as he felt Sherlock move off of him.

In a hurry, John turned. His prominent erection suddenly on display as it pushed hard against the soft fabric of his pants.

Grey eyes immediately focused their gaze on the obvious bulge.

Sherlock's cheekbones coloured even more. From a soft exhilarated rosé to a full blown scarlet as his tongue flicked over the plush lips. John watched it all. Watched as the heated gaze was dragged upwards with noticeable effort.

“Last time we started the massage with me on my back.” He whispered through a careful smile before pulling Sherlock closer by the arm. Their lips still knew what to do. Which was good because all of John's experience with men was of the theoretical kind and he did not know if Sherlock had more to draw from.

While he tenderly sucked on a full lower lip, he maneuvered his tall lover back on top but before he allowed himself the physical indulgence his hard cock craved, John made himself stop all movement and take in the sight above him. The light sheen of sweat on Sherlock's chest and flat torso. The thin line of hair guiding his eyes to an equally engorged shaft that seemed uncomfortably confined in black satin pants.

He swallowed audibly against the onslaught of want surging through his groin.

Sherlock looked back at him with unmasked desire and when their eyes met everything fell into place.

John had once heard the saying _Sex Doesn't Need A Manual_ but only now understood how true that was if you were with the right person.

In one swift motion, their arms wound around each other. He felt sweat slicking the many places they were touching. Heard Sherlock's laboured breathing. Felt it on the sensitive skin of his neck. Dark curls were tickling his temple but did not manage to distract him from the feeling of Sherlock's hard shaft pressing against his own. The slow drag of fabric only enhanced his pleasure. John pressed his fingertips into the dimples on Sherlock's back, mimicking the rhythm of his hips. Their bodies fit so wonderfully well, he thought. The pale body pressing hard and demanding against his might once have been mere _transport_ … John was pretty sure it wasn't anymore. And to him, it had never been.

 

He felt Sherlock's thrusts getting interrupted by a careful roll of hips. Heard more and more deep groans as they were pressed into his shoulder.

A tingling sensation began to spread through his lower back.

Sherlock was close. His boney knees pressing painfully into John's calves as his rhythm began to falter.

“John. Are you…?”

“Yes!” John confirmed by grabbing Sherlock's lush arse with both hands and pressing his hips forcefully up into erratic thrusts.

He wanted to tell Sherlock to come but couldn't. His own impending orgasm taking control of his body. His hips moved of their own accord in counter rhythm to the hard cock pushing him down into the mattress. The muscles under his hands tensing until his fingertips couldn't dent them anymore as he heard his name sighed like a prayer into his ear.

Sherlock's arms tightened around his back when he felt hard flesh pulse against his shaft.

It took him along. Wrung a guttural moan from his chest as the world came to a sudden halt. Every physical sensation narrowed down to his groin.

Above him, Sherlock seemed to lose all strength and dropped on top of him while John still shook through his climax.

 

For a few moments, all they did was breath.

 

The first thing John noticed was the smell of Chinese food that made his stomach rumble. Then, several seconds later, he could feel Sherlock blink against his collar bone. His long lashes catching in the soft hair covering his chest.

 

“Still processing?” He asked, softly teasing.

“I just thought…” Sherlock whispered before stopping.

“You always do.” John replied with a sated smile. “What?”

“I just thought that I love you, too.” His voice was barely audible in the quiet room.

John pressed a grateful kiss into the thick curls of Sherlock's head, hugging the lanky man tight against his chest.

 

Soon, the sticky feeling in his pants and his empty stomach would become problematic, but for now, all was right with the world. At least in the small part of it that was 221 B Baker Street.


End file.
